By Pam Farley

Pamela Farley is an Australian author of dark fiction. She is a member of the Australian Horror Writer’s Association and has had more than a dozen of her short stories published in magazines in Australia and the UK. Pam lives in rural South Australia with family and assorted animals. She works in a country veterinary practice.

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/PamelaFarley

Today’s weird tale takes us to a remote farmhouse… at night.  The power goes out… Where are the matches?  Where’s the cat?  What’s that glow through the trees?

Adult Themes

Reaping

Samantha had been away for the weekend with her girlfriends. The break had been fun and all the girls were still laughing raucously when they dropped her at the gate. Her small farm house was ten kilometers from town, and in the still rural-twilight the din the girls made seemed to linger in the air.

As she got out of the car Samantha could hear the telltale clinking of empty Cruiser bottles rolling around on the car’s floor. The girls were singing, loud and off key while she got her bag from the boot. When the tooting vehicle departed there were limbs flailing from all four windows. The car turned at the end of the road and disappeared. Darkness came on suddenly, accompanied by a cool wind. Samantha swayed and clutched the gate post. The three drinks she had gulped down in the last hour had gone to her head. She gave a giggle.

The sensor light failed to come on when Samantha walked to the porch. The area was in shadow and she couldn’t see a thing. She tripped on the metal boot scraper by the door and swore. It was sheer luck when the key in her hand found its way into the lock, and the back door sprung open.

It was darker in the house than it had been outside and Samantha’s hands fumbled along the walls from memory, but there was no response from any of the light switches. More obscenities sprang from her mouth as she realized that the problem was within the fuse box outside. By bumping and feeling her way to the laundry she located the torch on a shelf next to the clothes dryer.

‘At least this still works,’ she muttered to the night.

But the globe glowed dim and she knew it would not last for long. She rushed outside to check the fuses. Panic had rendered her sober and dexterous. A systematic check of the old porcelain plugs soon helped her to identify the blown one. She re-threaded it with the fine steel wire kept inside the power box. But when she replaced the plug and threw the switch there was a loud bang as it blew again.

‘You piece of shit!’ she exclaimed.

Her nearest neighbor lived over a kilometer away and she did not feel like making the trek over rocky paddocks in this blackness. She wasn’t sure what help he could offer anyway, he was no electrician. She looked across the distance toward his house.

A tiny glint of light cut through the night. Samantha glanced up to see if the moon was reflecting off something, but the sky was a blanket of black. The light must be coming from my neighbor’s house, she thought.

She shrugged and went back inside. With the dimming flashlight in her hand she went in search of candles and a lighter. Silently she cursed herself for giving up smoking. At least in those days she could put a hand on a half a dozen lighters in a heartbeat. A small oil-burning lamp sat at the bottom of her kitchen cupboard and she lit it with the last match in the box. It gave off an eerie glow but it would be more reliable than the failing torch.

It struck her as odd that her cat, Fanny, had not yet come to greet her, and she walked through the house calling her pet. From the dining room window she spotted the glow from across the paddock.

Did it seem brighter, or perhaps closer? She wondered.

Fanny’s white coat looked luminous in the lantern’s yellow flame and Samantha bent to touch her. The cat was cold and solid. Samantha’s hand flinched away as a shudder of fear passed through her. She cried out with a wet sob.

Fanny was quite dead.

Samantha tried to think what might have happened to her pet. The window was propped open to give the cat access outside, so perhaps a car had hit her. Hard to believe when only a handful of people ever used the thoroughfare. In summertime she would have considered a snake bite, but it was far too cold this time of the year for such nasties to be out and about. The animal had been in rude good health when she had left on Friday night, so whatever had befallen her, it must have been sudden.

Hot salty tears spilled down her cheeks as she carried the stiffened body of her beloved cat. But even in her misery Samantha’s blurring eyes were drawn once more to the ever-brightening glow in the paddock. It was starting to take form and it was definitely closer.

She wondered if it was her neighbor working late, perhaps tending to a sick cow. But surely it was the wrong direction. His livestock were kept much further south. With this thought in mind she felt hot prickly worry. It made her squirm. Her own pony and goat were out there somewhere, and she hoped that her brother had remembered to come and feed them.

Perhaps that was Phil out there with a torch, she wondered. Perhaps one of my animals has taken ill. She looked down at the stiff body in her arms. Surely I couldn’t be that unlucky.

Her tears had begun again and she berated herself for not being tougher.

Phil’s car had not been parked outside, she told the dead cat, and so he couldn’t be here. Samantha sniffed and jutted out her chin. She had been alone in this isolated cottage for three years since her mother had died. She was used to the remoteness but her pets were important to ward off any feelings of loneliness.

From the kitchen she got a garbage bag and wrapped Fanny in it. She put the body in the wash-trough and went outside to check on her other pets. The lantern flickered in the mild breeze but did not extinguish. Samantha used the fence as a guide, fumbling and tripping over shrubs and rocks. She pulled her cardigan tight around her. The temperature seemed to have dropped now that she stood on open ground. The cold gusts soon had her teeth chattering. She shielded the lamp with her body, knowing how vulnerable the tiny flame was.

The glow was much nearer now and she presumed that whoever was out there would call to her soon. She strained her eyes to try to pick out either the goat’s shaggy white coat, or Pip’s darker chestnut form. Her call carried across the yard but was not returned with either a bleat or a neigh.

The catch on the old rusty gate was stuck and she had to heave against it to get it to unlatch. But it still didn’t move even once it was undone, and all the pushing and cursing she expended on it could not make it budge.

‘Crap, crap and double crap,’ she cursed.

She swung her head around toward the glow in the paddock, feeling momentarily guilty about swearing. The light drew ever closer but she still could not make out who it was. An involuntary quiver caused her arm to shake and the lantern to tip. Samantha fought to steady it before it fell onto the ground. The flame ebbed and spluttered but remained lit. It was then that she saw the body of her pony on the other side of the gate.

No,’ she whispered. ‘Pip, Pip get up, please.’

But when she reached out to touch the pony’s neck she knew that it wasn’t possible. Nor was it possible for the goat nearby, whose body was stiffened and beginning to bloat, to ever stand again.

They were both dead.

‘No! No! Why?’ she howled.

Tears flooded as the pain of loss hit her like a punch to the stomach. Her head reeled with the tragedy of the situation. It took a few seconds before she comprehended that these creatures had not died by accident. An icy tingle went up her spine and her mouth became quite dry. Samantha swallowed hard. The light had disappeared behind the garden shed. When it re-emerged she wanted to greet whomever with dignity, not blubbering like some kindergarten child.

The brightness was not emitted from a torch or lamp; it came from the creature itself. It was tall and slim and most certainly not human. A malicious smile appeared to cross its face as the thing moved ever closer. It exposed clusters of needle-like teeth that dripped with a greenish-yellow liquid.

This time when Samantha trembled the lantern did hit the ground, and the darkness embraced her.

The light of dawn fell upon the small farmyard. The wheat in the paddock seemed to sing in the gusty wind. It was the only sign of life for a very long way.

The End

“Reaping” Copyright © 2010 by Pam Farley, All Rights Reserved

By Heidi Logothetti
Heidi Logothetti was born in Northern California and attended Santa Clara University. She currently lives in Alexandria, Virginia, and works in Washington, DC. She is an omnivorous reader, enjoys hiking, and loves old movies and anime.

Today’s weird little tale concerns a woman and her television.  What’s the TV saying? Listen. It has something on its mind.  Through the chatter and between the channel surfs, is it trying to say more than you think?

Adult Themes – Not Intended for Young Children

Late Night TV

The vicodin has damped down the pain, but not quenched it entirely, so I leave my bed and go to the spare room. A needless move, since Mike hasn’t been home for days and the TV in our bedroom gets a better picture than the TV in the spare room, but I’ve read that you should only use your bed for sleep and sex. (I suppose I should have been avoiding my bedroom altogether, seeing how little of either I’ve gotten lately.)

A man in a lab coat is holding up a bottle and explaining how its contents naturally work with your body’s own natural mechanisms to promote natural weight loss. I flip the switch.

Black-and-white movie. A familiar-sounding waltz is softly playing. The scene is a large room, in darkness except for some light spilling (apparently) through a round, multi-paned window. The shadows upon the floor look like prison bars. A man carrying something on a tray walks across the floor unhurriedly but resolutely. He starts up the stairs, and I can see his face. My guts clench. I change the channel.

A man in a hockey mask is using a chainsaw to dismember a blonde with tight clothes. I relax. She looks just like the hundred or so blondes who hung out on the Senior Lawn in high school; I never could tell them apart.

Commercial. “Hi, I’m Dr. Amanda Gillis, and I want to tell you about a totally new, revolutionary product that will erase your wrinkles….” The woman looks very much like the chainsaw victim. I chuckle. After explaining that the product is based on an ancient Japanese secret, she introduces the creator, Dr. Cushing. He is pale and dark-haired, and his deep-set eyes glitter. It’s the same man as the one in the weight-loss product commercial. Click.

Bombs, palm trees, and men with helmets and guns running. Nope.

Not another black-and-white thing. Is that a really young Robert Redford? He’s dressed as a cop, and he’s talking to an old woman. Meh.

Godzilla! Yes! Who’s his opponent? Ghidorah! Ah, there’s Rodan (yawn) and Mothra (boring). At least those stupid miniature twins are nowhere in evidence. Ghidorah spews lightning from his three heads. Godzilla utters his trademark cry, which I last heard coming from the office photocopy machine when I tried to duplicate a 50-page document. I close my eyes, and I must have dropped off, because now Rodan and Mothra are swimming away and it’s the end of the movie. A commercial comes on, and I’m not surprised when it’s Dr. Cushing again. This time he’s promoting an entirely natural sleep aid that is guaranteed to….

A skinny white woman with a British accent has her arm around an African child dressed in a white t-shirt and tattered gray shorts. She earnestly explains how our donation of just 70 cents per day will provide food, clean water, and education for these children. I move my thumb over the control, but stop; even in my painkiller-and-insomnia-induced daze, I am ashamed because my first reaction is “Not another one of these Starving Brown Children appeals. I’ve heard this a million times.” I watch the woman point out the trash heap where the children search for food, the filthy river from which they take their water. It all bothers me vaguely, though I am unable to work myself up into feeling much emotion. The commercials feature a gray-haired couple talking about Your Final Expenses, Billy Mays hawking an amazing cleaning method, and a middle-aged woman who completed her online education in medical billing and now makes triple her previous salary. I am relieved and slightly disappointed when I don’t see Dr. Cushing. The woman comes back on, now surrounded by a couple dozen smiling children in school uniforms. I almost call the number listed prominently on the screen, but decide that it would be far too much effort to get up, find a pencil, write the number down, get my wallet, go to the telephone, etc. Also, I had read that you should research charitable concerns before you give to them; you should see how much of their funds actually go toward the cause. Right, now that I’ve been socially responsible, it’s time to change the channel.

A Lifetime Original Movie about a woman coping with the death of her child, who is being framed….Next.

A man with thick-rimmed glasses is holding a flaming bunch of newspapers and waving it toward some leafy vines that are reaching out to him. The color is bright and a bit grainy; looks like a 60s movie. The vines jerk back; the man flings down the newspapers and bolts. The vines slither around the still-burning newspapers and beat out the flames. They close in and fill the screen….The scene changes to a close-up of a different man on a train. He looks pale and disturbed. The camera pulls back and shows other people watching him, among them a bearded man with fingerless gloves and a dark cloak and hat. The bearded man tells him that this future can be avoided and turns over a tarot card; it depicts a skeleton, the death-card.

This is not one of the commercial-less movie channels, and now my friend is onscreen, explaining how his product can take away your pain without any need for pills. This is actually interesting, though I snort skeptically. I hear testimonials from various real-life people (not actors!) who have been cured of their acute or chronic pains with this stuff. I surf.

Another black-and-white movie. An oddly hollow, old woman’s voice, and a young man with a little smile and crazy eyes.

News—a bombing in Indonesia.

Title credits—The Grapes of Wrath. That commercial has to be over now; I navigate back to the horror movie.

I learn that the bearded man is called “Dr. Schreck.” Cheesy. Another of the train passengers, a cheerful but slightly nervous blond man, taps three times on a stack of Tarot cards, snapping his fingers after each tap. Dr. Schreck lays out the cards, and the scene fades to a story about a voodoo curse. I do not change the channel, and in the successive commercial breaks, Dr. Cushing pushes products that will take away anxiety and depression, acne, and rheumatism. (The FDA has not evaluated any of the claims made for these products.) I have now entered that odd state of clarity experienced during a dream, a fever, or an extended waking period, and it does not occur to me that this doctor’s ubiquity is unusual even for late-night television.

It also does not surprise me when, at the end of the movie, Dr. Cushing interrupts his sale of an acid-reflux treatment to ask me if I had enjoyed the movie. I say that I had, but that it didn’t take me very long to guess the ending. He then asks me if I was clever enough to guess what sort of treatment cured obesity, wrinkles, insomnia, pain, anxiety, depression, acne, and rheumatism. I didn’t know.

“But wait! There’s more!” he says, and his eyes glitter more than ever. “My product will remove loneliness, loss, betrayal, joblessness, money problems, madness, even, eventually, war and famine….”

“Oh. Clever. When do you turn into a skeleton?”

“I hope you don’t think that was a witty remark.”

“I don’t. I don’t quite get it, though. Am I already dead, or are you trying to make me kill myself?”

“Neither. You’ve taken a lot of those vicodins; your breathing has gradually slowed, and it’s about to stop. You’re—forgive the cliché—at death’s door.”

Cary Grant—that was the name of the actor, the one in the first movie, who looked so much like Mike. Mike had, after I’d been laid off and gotten fat and pregnant, gone off with the blonde admin in his office. Talk about cliché. I had not told him about the miscarriage.

At this point, I should be going toward the light or having some life-affirming epiphany about how life is worth the struggle and pain and whatnot. No light, except for the bluish glow of the screen. I checked my addled brain; no epiphany, just a bleak sense that it would be really depressing to rot here for days until my bloated corpse stank enough to attract attention.

Oh, well, I suppose vanity can be life affirming. The drug and lack of oxygen are obviously playing tricks on me, but it is my impression that I am hoisting myself to my feet, stumbling over to the phone, picking up the receiver, and dialing 9-1-1. Dr. Cushing is grinning from the TV. “Fuck off,” I mumble, and turn back to the phone.

The End

“Late Night TV” Copyright © 2009 by Heidi Logothetti, All Rights Reserved